


To Those Who Found Love Drowning Sorrows at the Pub

by nerddowell



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brooklyn Era, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Love Confessions, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, The Whiskey The Liar The Thief, Tumblr: otpprompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 03:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14583828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: Bucky swallows the rest of his scotch and pushes the tumbler to one side, leaning back in his chair to give Steve a proper once-over. The kid actually puffs his chest out like a tomcat, posturing, and Bucky’s lips curl up in amusement. This scrap of a guy, with an attitude ten times the size of his body, with a rough, warm Brooklyn accent and bruised knuckles, might well be the most interesting person Bucky’s ever met at this bar. Or in his life.‘So, Steve,’ he drawls, and breaks into a sly grin. ‘What’s a place like you doing in a kid like this?’Steve punches him on the shoulder, and Bucky cackles.Fill for this post from otpprompts:Imagine your OTP in an AU based on The Whiskey, the Liar, the Thief by Patent Pending.





	To Those Who Found Love Drowning Sorrows at the Pub

The bar is typical of Dumbo: a run-down dive full of dockhands, most of them first-generation Irish immigrants, necking pints of Guinness inexpertly poured by the barman, and Bucky is nursing a tumbler of scotch and wishing he didn’t have to head back out to work in a couple of hours. He’s been working himself to the bone for years since his father died and passed on the mantle of the man of the household, supporting his mother and younger sister who still has to go through high school. There have been rumblings of war in Europe for the last few months, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted to sign up: a decent, steady salary to send home, a smart uniform, and the opportunity to get away from this crumbling, dingy corner of Brooklyn.

It’s not often he spends the night after his shift at the docks in the pub, since – as his ma is always telling him – he’s a handsome lad, and well-liked among the girls of Brooklyn, so he’s more often than not to be found in the dance halls. He scrubs up like a new penny when he wants to, and the glint of his eyes and the suave, cocky smile he tips up towards the girls has him with a dame or two on his arm every night, spinning her out over the dance floor and wiping lipstick off his collar as he walks in through the front door after walking her home. Tonight, though, he’s too bone-tired, and all he wants is a stiff drink.

It’s raining outside, the sky halfway between night and dawn, a watery sort of grey all-too-familiar, and he takes the booth by the door to stare out of the window, imagining what Europe looks like and how he would get there. His father had been in the military, after all; Bucky was born in the medical centre of the Shelbyville barracks as an Army brat and had spent most of his life following his father’s job around the country until he died and the Barnes family were forced to settle in Brooklyn.

He swirls the scotch around his glass morosely and taps his fingers on the sticky table, lost in thought, until the bar door is thrown open and a young man walks in.

He’s about half Bucky’s size, with angular bones jutting out everywhere and making his clothes hang awkwardly as if he’s made of wire hangers, a broken nose (still healing, judging by the deep purple bruises under his eyes) and a stubborn set to his jaw. He looks like a kitten someone has tried to drown, and Bucky snorts into his glass as the bartender takes one look at him and orders him out.

The kid stands his ground, and Bucky is amazed to hear that he’s not the middle-schooler he looks like, but a twenty-four-year-old man from the neighbourhood next to Bucky’s own. He orders a pint of Guinness and stomps over to Bucky’s booth, slamming it down on the table and glaring at the glass as though it’s personally insulted him.

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

‘Yeah, pal? Can I help you?’

‘Can’t a guy sit down? ’S’a free country.’

‘The immigration posters’ve been lying to you, buddy,’ Bucky says with a snort, and edges the guy’s drink away from his side of the table. ‘This country is many things, but free ain’t it.’

‘A little young for that kind of existential nihilism, ain’t you?’ the kid says, and Bucky blinks.

‘That kind of what?’

The guy grins at him, taking a sip of his Guinness and leaving himself with a foam moustache on his upper lip. ‘Never mind.’

‘You’re a little punk,’ Bucky says, and there’s a sort of friendliness verging on fond in his tone.

‘Jerk,’ the guy retorts, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

‘What’s a kid like you doing in a place like this?’

‘I swear that’s supposed to go differently,’ the guy says with a wicked glint in his eye, and smirks at Bucky. ‘I’m drinking. Like every fella in here.’

‘I still ain’t convinced you’re legal to do that.’

‘I’m legal for everything, pal,’ the guy says, and Bucky swallows, feeling his face heating up with a fierce blush. The guy snorts into his drink and laughs, full of mischief, and Bucky is torn between laughing and lamping him. It’s a close call.

‘Steve Rogers,’ the guy says, and holds out a hand. It’s narrow, skinny enough that Bucky can see probably all of the bones jangling around in it, and warm when he wraps his own broad fist around it and shakes.

‘James Buchanan Barnes.’

Bucky swallows the rest of his scotch and pushes the tumbler to one side, leaning back in his chair to give Steve a proper once-over. The kid actually _puffs his chest out_ like a tomcat, posturing, and Bucky’s lips curl up in amusement. This scrap of a guy, with an attitude ten times the size of his body, with a rough, warm Brooklyn accent and bruised knuckles, might well be the most interesting person Bucky’s ever met at this bar. Or in his life.

‘So, Steve,’ he drawls, and breaks into a sly grin. ‘What’s a place like you doing in a kid like this?’

Steve punches him on the shoulder, and Bucky cackles, slinging an arm around the guy’s shoulders and squeezing.  


* * *

  
Since they met, he’s joined Steve in a shitty apartment in Dumbo and sees him all the time, on his way out in the morning, working shifts at the grocer’s on Fourth and getting into fights behind the movie theatre around the corner. Bucky steps in to rescue him whenever he catches him at it, sending the guys whaling on Steve out of the alleys crying for their mas, and gets a glower and a bitter mouthful of blood being spat out on the pavement for his trouble. Steve doesn’t seem grateful – if anything, he seems insulted that Bucky thinks he can’t handle himself, which if Bucky hadn’t seen him go down like a sack of rocks after one punch, he might have been dissuaded from believing.

There’s one thing he has to say for Steve, though. The little shit climbs straight back to his feet, fists ready, even though Bucky can practically see the stars in his eyes and the birds tweeting around his head like a Tom and Jerry cartoon.

‘I had him on the ropes,’ Steve says, wincing as his speech pulls at the split in his lip.

‘Sure,’ Bucky says, unconvinced, and throws Steve’s arm around his shoulders to help him out onto the street. For all his bravado, Steve leans into him heavily, favouring his left side, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

‘Sometimes I think you like gettin’ punched.’

Steve doesn’t dignify that with an answer, just punches him weakly on the arm and demands to be let go. Bucky sets him down on a bench and lounges next to him, pulling a dime coin out of his pocket and tossing it idly.

‘Tails,’ Steve says, his eyes on the glint of metal, and Bucky slaps it on the back of his hand.

‘Heads.’

‘Damn,’ Steve mumbles, and dabs at his lip with the cuff of his shirt.

‘Let me,’ Bucky says, gentle, and spits on his handkerchief to dab at Steve’s face carefully. Steve makes the expected groan of protest – ‘Gross.’ ‘You’re too old to believe in cooties, you sixth-grader,’ Bucky retorts – but sits still whilst Bucky cleans him up, and even rewards him with a small smile after he’s done.

‘Thanks.’

‘Someone’s gotta look after you, you little punk.’ Bucky says, fondly exasperated. ‘That smart mouth of yours, you’re gonna get in trouble. As it is, ’s no wonder they always go for the right hook to the mouth – who could miss a target that big?’

Steve glares at him, but there’s amusement in his blue eyes. Bucky scrubs a knuckle over his thatch of blond hair and gets a real glare in response.

‘Jerk.’

‘’S why you love me, Rogers.’

‘No one else will,’ Steve shoots back, and Bucky laughs.  


* * *

  
He takes Steve on double dates whenever he can get a girl to agree. It kills him to do it, because no matter how hard Steve tries, the girls see his small frame and hear the wheeze in his pigeon chest and won’t give him the time of day. It’s maddening, because Bucky knows that all you have to do is give the guy a chance and you’ll reap the rewards, a smart mouth sassing you every time it opens, the kind of fierce loyalty that was meant to have died out after knights gallant left the earth, and the heart of a lion. It kills him, because if he sees it, he doesn’t understand why the girls don’t.

Steve slopes off to the municipal museum after another disastrous evening where his date left his side the moment another guy asked her and didn’t say another word to him the whole night, and Bucky walks his own date to the subway station before going to find him. The girl he’d been with – Dolly, or Dot, or something – had given him a kiss goodnight that spoke of all the things more she’d like to do with him, but he’d been a gentleman. Nothing good came of fooling around with a girl like that, anyhow; knowing his luck, he’d knock her up, and then end up married and tied down to an apartment in Brooklyn Heights and his job at the docks before he knew what’d happened.

Steve is standing in front of a display about the war in Europe when he finds him, and Bucky’s heart sinks. Steve’s been trying to get enlisted since the damn thing was announced and has been rejected by as many Army enlistment officers as he has girls in dance halls; meanwhile Bucky, who’d applied to keep him company the first time, had just received his orders and would no doubt be shipping out sometime soon.

His stomach twists uncomfortably. He ignores it, slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders, and steers him towards the bar.

He buys the drinks, a pint of Guinness for Steve (living up to his Irish heritage) and a whiskey for himself, and they take the booth by the door. (It’s practically their booth now, with the frequency they sit there of an evening.)

Steve is glum, just staring into the depths of his pint, and Bucky nudges him with his elbow.

‘’S just a drink, Steve, it ain’t gonna bite unless you scare it.’

‘Shove it, Barnes,’ Steve says, but his lips twitch into a momentary smile.

‘I’m sorry, Stevie,’ Bucky says. He’s not sure what he’s apologising for – the girl’s rejection in the dance hall, dragging Steve along in the first place when they both knew what was going to happen, the fact that Steve could apply and apply to the military until he was blue in the face and they wouldn’t take him, or the fact that Bucky still hadn’t told him that he’d got in.

‘’S not your fault, Buck.’

‘I know it ain’t. Doesn’t stop me from being sorry.’ He takes a gulp of his whiskey. ‘She can’t see what a catch you are, it’s her loss.’

‘Yep,’ Steve snorts, ‘girls’re just lining up around the block to be with a guy half of them could beat in an arm-wrestle and the rest could step on if they’re not lookin’ where they’re going.’

Bucky rolls his eyes. ‘Pity parties ain’t my idea of a good time, Steve, and I know they ain’t yours, either.’ He nudges Steve’s drink towards him. ‘Drink up and I’ll let you beat _me_ at an arm-wrestle.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘I know,’ Bucky says sadly. ‘But I dunno what else to do to make you feel better.’

‘You could put a bag over your head, spare me the sight of your ugly mug.’ Steve’s face breaks into a sly smile, eyes sparkling.

‘You little punk.’

‘I’m serious. I’ll ask the barman. A nice paper bag, hide that hideous face of yours–’

Bucky dips his fingers in his drink and flicks it at him, and Steve smirks, taking a long draught of his own pint.

‘I gotta tell you something,’ Bucky says suddenly, and Steve puts his drink down, expression immediately serious.

‘What’s up, Buck?’

Bucky fights the urge to suck his teeth in a Bugs Bunny impression, and avoids Steve’s eyes, staring instead into his tumbler as he swirls his drink around.

‘…I got my orders.’

Steve stares at him, silent, before nodding. ‘When’re you shipping out?’

‘Three weeks. Sergeant James Barnes, the 107th.’ Steve’s father’s old regiment.

Steve nods again. ‘I can’t wait to see the back of you.’ He’s still shocked, Bucky can tell, but at least he’s got the energy for sarcasm.

‘I hate you too, asshole,’ Bucky says, grinning, and clinks their glasses together. ‘But really,’ he asks, ‘you’re not sore with me?’

‘I knew you’d got in, Buck,’ Steve says heavily. ‘You left your papers on the dinner table.’

Bucky blushes, shame-faced, ducking his head.

Steve claps a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m gonna miss you.’

‘I’ll miss you, too,’ Bucky says. ‘Don’t go doin’ anything stupid while I’m away.’

‘How can I?’ Steve asks. ‘You’re taking all the stupid with you.’  


* * *

  
They weave home together, Steve supporting Bucky for once, who had bolstered himself after his confession with as many scotches as their tight finances would allow. He goes pliant as Steve bundles him into their cot, obediently raising his hips to help drag his slacks off and fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Steve bats him away, his own hands as steady as his heart, and Bucky watches him with soft, pained eyes.

‘C’mere,’ he says, and holds his arms open. Steve shakes his head.

‘No, Buck, not tonight.’

‘I said c’mere, you punk,’ Bucky slurs, grabbing Steve’s wrists and yanking him down. ‘’M leavin’ in three weeks an’ I want as much of this before I go as I can get.’

He’s not sure what _this_ is, but it’s _something_ , Steve’s body cool but solid against his own, a blond head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, and Bucky’s heart so heavy there’s tears welling in his eyes. He’s fighting the sobs back, blinking furiously to dry his eyes, when Steve sits up.

‘Hey,’ he murmurs, and then more insistently upon seeing Bucky’s face. ‘ _Hey_.’

‘’M fine, Stevie, go back to sleep–’

‘Like hell you are,’ Steve growls, and pushes Bucky’s hair back off his forehead. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘…’M scared,’ Bucky confesses. ‘I’m scared shitless. I’m goin’ off to war and you’re gonna be left here without me, and what’re you gonna do when the grocer money don’t stretch to your asthma cigarettes or your meds again – and if some fucker’s kickin’ the shit outta you in that alley again–’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ Steve says, as though it’s that easy; as though Bucky doesn’t spend his every waking moment tormented by the _what-if_ s of leaving Steve behind.

‘How about I don’t breathe while I’m at it, if we’re askin’ the impossible?’

‘I’m gonna be okay, Buck.’ Steve smiles. ‘My best guy’s gonna be waiting for me.’

Bucky starts to say something, then does a double take. Steve is watching him, his eyes warm but guarded, body tense as though he’s ready to take flight.

‘Your best guy?’

‘You think I don’t know a hopeless case when I see one?’ Steve huffs out a soft laugh. ‘You look at me like I hung the moon, Buck, it don’t take a genius.’

‘I–’

‘’S a good thing, really, ’cause I got it as bad myself.’ Steve crosses his legs, gazes at Bucky with the gentlest eyes, his hand coming up to cup his friend’s cheek. ‘Like just about everythin’ else with a pulse in Brooklyn, I’m head over heels for Bucky Barnes.’

Bucky stares at him for a long, long time, before he makes a choked noise and tangles a hand in Steve’s hair, pulling him close and fitting their mouths together as though he’s a dying man and Steve’s the last of his air supply. He’s not sure how he ever lived without it, the rush through his veins, the slick slide of Steve’s lips against his, a tongue in his mouth and his heart fluttering in his chest. He kisses him again and again, until he can’t taste anything but Steve, until he feels dizzy and lightheaded and Steve’s looking at him with flushed cheeks and swollen lips.

‘Christ,’ Bucky says succinctly, and then, ‘come _here_.’

His hands shove straight into Steve’s shorts, gratified to find a hot, if not fully firm, erection there waiting for him, and he curls his hand around him and strokes. Steve shudders out a breath against his shoulder, body curling reflexively into Bucky’s, and he keeps his hand moving, sucking and biting at Steve’s neck until the whole of Brooklyn is going to know in the morning who Steve belongs to.

Steve makes soft sharp noises, his breath speeding up, as Bucky strokes over him, twisting his hand around the head and whispering in his ear. ‘C’mon, Steve. Show it to me. C’mon. I wanna see it.’

‘ _Ah_ –’ Steve grits out, hips arching sharply into Bucky’s fist, and there’s a pulse of warmth over his fingers. Bucky milks him through it, still whispering about how happy he is, how beautiful Steve is against him, how he loves him and he’s going to miss him and this in Europe, and Steve pants out a laugh.

‘You’ve already got me in the sack, Buck, you don’t have to butter me up.’

‘’S the truth,’ Bucky tells him, and wipes his hand off on the duvet. Steve wrinkles his nose.

‘Couldn’t’ve got a tissue or somethin’?’

‘I’d have had to let go of you.’ Bucky tells him, matter of fact, ‘And I’m not gonna do that, not now, not ever.’

 


End file.
